There’s a vast quiet in the house this morning---the hum of the refrigerator is a low accompaniment to the clock-tick and the rattle of my fingerboard keys, but that’s about it. A grunty little sigh now and then from FuzzyPup, over in the dark edge of the room in his soft basket. Perhaps he’s dreaming of chasing something in the warm-ago grass of his Georgia life, so far removed from this great whiteness piled upon the steps, the sidewalk, the drive, as we walk out, imprinting the ground with the first footsteps in the history of Time.
We crunched our path out to the hosta beds, snugged beneath a big blanket of leaves below the great white quilt, and he demurred on stepping in. We made our way out and around the drive, me in my long flannely gown and flappy cotton sweater, my loose pink clogs slapping on my heels, letting in the cold and the melting wet. He quickly saluted a plant-stand, a small prickly evergreen volunteered in the withered grapevine, the bag of small mesquite chips left leaned against Chris’ new Rolls Royce grill. Caro laughed from the door as Fuzz lifted against the crinkly plastic bag---“A new flavor to the smoke,” we said. “Mesquite-ureeeen.! Be on the shelves soon!!”
And the quiet is a soothe today, as yesterday was a get-out-in-the-snow day, and as Saturday was a hustle in the morning to get Chris underway for his trip South. He likes to TAKE things. The carry bag with his unders and socks and toiletries and hose to the breathing machine, the big black cloth market-bag for the back seat, with meds and book and glasses case and two big CD packs from the library---a Burke and a Grafton, for whiling the long I-65 hours.
He carried a flat box with pans of fudge, a bottle of homemade wine, a couple of gifts for the children. His immense old brown leather satchel, like a doctor’s case from the forgotten time of housecalls, held lots of things---needful things, just in case. And his pillow, his paper and soap bagged and tucked into the mix, the lovely cedar-wood flute in a beige-flannel bag for our California son, for his music ministry. A gift certificate for our youngest couple---a little weekend getaway to enjoy before our new Grandson comes in the spring, and half of Sam’s stock of snacks for plenishing his Mom’s larder.
He smoked a turkey on his new grill on Friday afternoon as the Christmas Dinner cooked in the oven---the turkey was cooled, Saranned up like ET’s death scene, and carted South, to go with Sam’s croissants, several cheeses, grapes, Aussie Bites, Brownie Bites, a flat of Mr. Otis S’s good muffins, and a fresh pineapple. It’s a blessing Granny Clampett’s chair won’t fit atop our car.
And today, as soon as last night’s dishes are done, in the quiet of this room with the sparkly tree lights and the slow-tick clock, I want to write down some things, some remembrances of the past year, of the season, of the gatherings and the days. There’s just a call for reflection in a day with no expected callers, no need to go for bread, and the moat of snow betwixt us and all save the postman. Perhaps his steps on the front lawn and ours on the back will be the only tracks left in the day, and they for the vanishing, so I hope to spend it wisely. Thoughts are swimming and jumping and will fleet away if I’m not quick. And I’m slower these days, with time and thought, but the day calls, and I answer.
Moiré non,
We crunched our path out to the hosta beds, snugged beneath a big blanket of leaves below the great white quilt, and he demurred on stepping in. We made our way out and around the drive, me in my long flannely gown and flappy cotton sweater, my loose pink clogs slapping on my heels, letting in the cold and the melting wet. He quickly saluted a plant-stand, a small prickly evergreen volunteered in the withered grapevine, the bag of small mesquite chips left leaned against Chris’ new Rolls Royce grill. Caro laughed from the door as Fuzz lifted against the crinkly plastic bag---“A new flavor to the smoke,” we said. “Mesquite-ureeeen.! Be on the shelves soon!!”
And the quiet is a soothe today, as yesterday was a get-out-in-the-snow day, and as Saturday was a hustle in the morning to get Chris underway for his trip South. He likes to TAKE things. The carry bag with his unders and socks and toiletries and hose to the breathing machine, the big black cloth market-bag for the back seat, with meds and book and glasses case and two big CD packs from the library---a Burke and a Grafton, for whiling the long I-65 hours.
He carried a flat box with pans of fudge, a bottle of homemade wine, a couple of gifts for the children. His immense old brown leather satchel, like a doctor’s case from the forgotten time of housecalls, held lots of things---needful things, just in case. And his pillow, his paper and soap bagged and tucked into the mix, the lovely cedar-wood flute in a beige-flannel bag for our California son, for his music ministry. A gift certificate for our youngest couple---a little weekend getaway to enjoy before our new Grandson comes in the spring, and half of Sam’s stock of snacks for plenishing his Mom’s larder.
He smoked a turkey on his new grill on Friday afternoon as the Christmas Dinner cooked in the oven---the turkey was cooled, Saranned up like ET’s death scene, and carted South, to go with Sam’s croissants, several cheeses, grapes, Aussie Bites, Brownie Bites, a flat of Mr. Otis S’s good muffins, and a fresh pineapple. It’s a blessing Granny Clampett’s chair won’t fit atop our car.
And today, as soon as last night’s dishes are done, in the quiet of this room with the sparkly tree lights and the slow-tick clock, I want to write down some things, some remembrances of the past year, of the season, of the gatherings and the days. There’s just a call for reflection in a day with no expected callers, no need to go for bread, and the moat of snow betwixt us and all save the postman. Perhaps his steps on the front lawn and ours on the back will be the only tracks left in the day, and they for the vanishing, so I hope to spend it wisely. Thoughts are swimming and jumping and will fleet away if I’m not quick. And I’m slower these days, with time and thought, but the day calls, and I answer.
Moiré non,
The quiet, the reflection you talk about is contagious. I feel calmed and content just reading your post.
ReplyDeleteMerry Christmas.
Such a delight to read your descriptions of daily life -every day's writing is enjoyable,but when I have to laugh out loud, (like the mind pix of Granny Clampets chair on top of Chris's car) (or moan in envy, like the party goodies you prepared)- it compels me to tell you how much it once again makes my day a pleasure to read your blog. VERY BEST WISHES for the NEW YEAR. - An. in TX
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